


God, Demons and Angels

by x_art



Series: The Afters [4]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:11:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story based on 'Demonology.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	God, Demons and Angels

 

\-----------------------

 _Prentiss: “If you want my badge and gun, I understand.”_

 _Hotch: <shakes head and says to Father del Toro> “There’s a plane ticket in your name to Rome. Agent Morgan and I will drive you to the airport. Any of your belongings can be shipped to you.”_

 _Del Toro: “You have no right to deport me.”_

 _Rossi: “The Vatican intervened. The Italian government has rescinded your diplomatic status.”_

 _Hotch: “They’ll do with you as they see fit when you’re back in their jurisdiction.”_

 _Del Toro: “You’ve all just made the world a much more dangerous place.” <turns to Prentiss>: “May God’s love be with you.”_

 _Prentiss: “And with you.”_

 _Morgan <watching Del Toro leave>: “I saw that guy up there. He was certain he was fighting against some kind of evil.”_

 _Rossi: “We all have to be certain.”_

 _Morgan: “Rossi, don’t tell me you believe in evil.”_

 _Rossi: “Don’t tell me you do this job and you don’t.”_

 _Morgan: “I believe there are evil acts, but those are choices, brain chemistry.” <turns to Hotch> “What do you think, Hotch?”_

 _Hotch: “I think, deep down, we’re all capable of unspeakable things. Where it starts or what you call it, I don’t know.”_

 

***

 

Aaron shifted the phone to his other ear, then pulled the stack of papers and file folders towards him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And I expect it within the hour.”

An hour. Not much time to complete a report that usually took five. It was one more attempt to throw him off his game, to get him to quit. He nudged the stack away again. “Of course.”

“You dodged a bullet on this one, Agent Hotchner.”

He pushed the stack back, a little too forcefully and it hit the pencil holder, sending the cup flying off the edge of the desk. It landed with a muffled thud. He tightened his lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

He shoved the chair back, preparing to rise when Strauss asked, “Will you be seeing David tonight?”

He froze, half crouching. “It’s after ten, ma’am. Agent Rossi has gone home for the day.”

She sighed—he could actually hear it over the line. “Well, when you talk to him tomorrow, tell him I’m not happy with him, either.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday, ma’am.”

“Yes it is, Agent Hotchner.”

Said in a tone of extreme patience, like she was talking to a child. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good night.”

Strauss hung up before he could respond. He sat the phone on its cradle wishing he were at home so he could slam it down. He got up and went to get the pencils and pens and holder. She didn’t know anything, he reassured himself as he looked under the desk to make sure he’d gotten everything. She wasn’t saying that she knew he and Dave were seeing each other. She was just telling him without really telling him that Dave couldn’t protect him, not in this case, so he might as well not look for help from that quarter.

As if needed Dave’s protection in the first place. As if he’d even ask.

He was putting the pencil holder back in its place when the thought, _‘But what if she_ does _know?’_ slipped in. Instead of going back to his chair, he went to the tall, narrow windows and looked out.

It was still snowing, heavier, faster. They needed it because it had been an unusually dry spring, but it meant the drive home would be a pain in the ass. He could sleep on the sofa, of course; he’d done it before.

 _‘Will you be seeing David tonight?’_

Not, _‘Will you be seeing_ Agent Rossi _tonight?’ or_ even, _‘When you talk to David, tell him that I’m not happy with him, either.’_

It could be an inconsequential slip of the tongue, but Strauss didn’t make inconsequential slips of the tongue. She aimed and shot, the barb perfectly placed.

So, maybe she did know. Maybe she was stockpiling the knowledge, hording the intel like a soldier in enemy territory hoards bullets, getting ready for the final assault.

It wasn’t a new thought. For either he or Dave—they’d discussed it more than a few times, the ramifications and fall-out of discovery. Sometimes the conversations were casual, sometimes heated. But always, no matter what, they _always_ ended with Dave saying a variation of, _‘Screw Erin and the BAU. I’ll sleep with whomever I want.’_

The last time, when Dave had said almost that very thing, Aaron responded sourly, saying that they usually got in very little sleeping and not even that much screwing. Dave had laughed, then proved him right on the former and wrong on the latter.

Aaron touched the cold windowpane, remembering. It had been good hearing Dave laugh. He’d been having moments of black blankness, tiny lapses Aaron knew from experience that were sharp and intense and impossible to avoid.

But time was just as implacable as grief and the moments were becoming more rare as the weeks drew on, as Zoe Hawkes’ young ghost faded.

He pushed away from the window with a sigh, circled the desk, then sat down again. He opened the report on the Del Toro incident and began to write.

***

He finished at eleven-thirty. He signed his name then collected the folders into a neat pile. He rubbed his eyes and it felt so good he did it again, something he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing. According to his ophthalmologist—a fifty-something woman who didn’t have to wear glasses—eyestrain was just part of growing old and rubbing already irritated eyes wasn’t going to help. He’d thanked her, not saying that it also didn’t help that his job required long hours of writing and typing and investigating.

He stretched, a long arch back, forcing his muscles to loosen, then stood up and went to deliver his report.

The BAU was like a tomb; it was Friday, after all. Strauss was gone. He hadn’t really expected her to wait and that was a good thing—he didn’t want to see her as much as she didn’t want to see him. He placed the folder on her desk, nudging it until it was as perfectly centered as possible. His grin at his small, pathetic act of rebellion died when he remembered he still had two supplementals to complete and three vacation requests to approve.

And it could all wait, he decided as he returned to his office. He was tired and it had been a long day.

He gathered his coat and briefcase and left.

His footsteps echoed as he descended the stairs, as he crossed the bullpen. Like a lot of places built to hold a crowd, the bullpen always seemed lifeless at night. As if the cement and metal and fake wood were actually organic materials that required human flesh to exist.

He shrugged uncomfortably at the thought and pushed through the glass doors.

***

He’d been right, the streets were a mess, slippery with a thin sheet of ice and snow. 95 wasn’t any better. Just past Mine Road, a U-haul from Pensacola had gone off the side and landed in the median. He checked his rearview, then slowed down and edged onto the shoulder, craning his head to see. There was no one in the cab, no one standing by the side of the van, and no tracks, either. The accident could have happened at any time, but if it had happened in the last half hour, there’d be some sign.

He checked his rearview again, then pulled back onto the highway. He hoped whoever had been involved was all right, safe and warm and not in Potomac Hospital.

But he was still fretting, minutes later, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel when he heard it again: _‘Will you be seeing David tonight?’_

“Goddamnit,” he muttered because it wasn’t the bad weather or the possibility of a family from Pensacola being injured that was making him jumpy. It was the fact that he was almost to Dumfries. Almost to the point where he could easily turn west instead of continuing north.

And he could be there in under thirty minutes.

Even though they hadn’t made plans for tonight, hadn’t even said anything beyond the usual _‘See you’_ s.’

There would be little, point, of course. He had three days’ worth of work to do in one and that wouldn’t be any fun even though Dave wouldn’t care because he was writing the third chapter of his new book and would be busy, as well.

So, they’d have sex tonight or not, then wake up in the morning and spend the day working. He’d take one corner of the ridiculously long sofa that Dave had bought because his old one had been too short for them both. Dave would take the other corner and, legs stretched out, their feet would meet in the middle. At some point, they’d stop and make love because being that close to Dave without the barriers of duty and caution was always tempting and he never resisted the urge to touch.

The image of how it might be came to him, sharp and clear as if he’d just lived it and his chest tightened. He switched lanes, muttering, _“Shit!”_ then skidding sideways before reaching the relatively dry pavement under the overpass. He took the cloverleaf gently, only slipping a little until he was up on Dumfries, heading west.

***

Montclair, for some reason, had less precipitation than Quantico and the going was easier. He wound his way around the curving streets until he got to Marlington and then to Clearwater, and finally, turning onto the shell-covered road that led, arrow-straight, to the house.

The lights bordering the circle drive were on, radiating glowing ovals that highlighted the big flakes that floated carelessly to the ground. He parked in his usual place and got out. He stood there a moment, letting the quiet settle in, soft and thick, like the snowfall.

For all his comments to Dave about the size of the house and grounds, he liked it. The house was Georgian with a large front yard that was hidden from view by a ten-foot high perimeter of trees and hedges. In the center of the yard, surrounded by a berm of sleeping plants, stood a water feature he'd figured had cost a fortune. He liked that too, even though it was a little gaudy.

He got his briefcase from the back seat then went around for what he privately called his, _‘Dave go-bag,’_ and headed for front door.

The walk had been cleared, all the way around, even the path that led to the garage. If he had any leftover qualms about the wisdom of dropping by so late at night, that dispelled it. Dave must have shoveled it himself—the neighbor kid only worked on the weekends.

He hesitated at the door. He had a key, given to him the year before, just after Dave had un-retired himself. He’d tossed it casually to Aaron one day saying, _‘Just in case.’_ Aaron had never used it, not wanting to impose or assume, but he had this secret fantasy. Of using the key to enter the house like a thief, tiptoeing across the marble-tiled foyer, up the curving staircase to the first room on the right. Of creeping across the plush carpeting to stand before the bed…

Dave would be sprawled on his back with one arm curled above his head, his favorite sleeping position. Aaron would strip, then slide in and—

The front door opened. “Well?” Dave said, breath streaming out in a thick vapor. “You coming or going?”

He was wearing black silk pajamas and robe, a drink in one hand. A lock of his dark hair, usually so neat and tidy, fell over his forehead, and his pajama top was partially unbuttoned. Whatever words Aaron might have said were suddenly gone and he could only stare at Dave’s throat, the fine lines of muscle and tendon leading down the curve of his clavicle—

“Well?” Dave asked again.

“Yeah,” he finally answered, meeting Dave’s eyes, waving his briefcase. “I was wondering if I should park under the car port.”

“No, you were wondering if I’d hear you if you snuck away.”

Dave’s words were tart and Aaron remembered their pointed back and forths earlier in the day, their brushes with real anger. He stepped closer. “No,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I was really wondering if you were asleep. If I could sneak into the house, get into bed with you and fuck you awake without you knowing it.”

He tended to be circumspect with his language, even in bed, and it was a turn-on, hearing Dave’s breath quicken, seeing the way his eyes widened, the way he almost dropped his glass before he caught himself.

“You’re gonna follow up on that proposal with some action, I hope.”

Dave’s voice was ragged and Aaron felt his own breath catch in his throat. “Only if you let me in.” His cheeks were hot.

Dave pushed the door back and gestured. “Mia casa è la tua casa.”

Aaron slipped by, making sure to brush against warm Dave’s chest and stomach with his cold sleeve.

***

But there was no sneaking, no fucking.

Because the minute he walked in to the foyer, exhaustion hit. He stopped and tipped his head, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Here,” Dave said quietly and took his go-bag. “I’ll take this upstairs. Go get something to drink. I’ll be right back.”

Aaron glanced sideways and watched Dave climbed the stairs. Then he shrugged off his coat and hung it in the closet. At the last minute, he dropped the briefcase in as well. There was no way he’d be working tonight. He went into the living room.

Like the rest of the house, the living room was beautifully—if a little eclectically—furnished. The color scheme was dark red and off white. On the wall next to a sketch of St. Sebastian by an obscure Renaissance artist, hung a picture of Dave’s grandparents in front of their small Commack, Long Island sausage shop. Over on the other side of the room, near the wide window, sat a loveseat, supposedly from the early 1800s. And further down on the rear wall hung a glass-enclosed case, holding, of all things, a necklace made of preserved daisies. He’d assumed it was from an ex-wife but didn’t want to ask.

He hesitated, then got out his cell. His call was quick and when he hung up, he was satisfied.

“Who was that?”

He turned. Dave strolled into the room, touching his elbow as he went to the bar.

“I passed a U-haul off the side of the road on 95. I was just making sure there were no fatalities.”

“Were there?”

“No.”

“Good.” Dave held up his glass. “Not drinking tonight?”

“Sure.”

Dave picked up a bottle. “Scotch?”

“Yes. Please.” He pulled off his jacket and laid it on an armchair.

“How was it?”

He’d been waiting for that question. “Don’t you mean, what did Director Strauss say?”

“Yes.”

“That I didn’t follow orders. That she has to clean up after me. That she won’t do it again.”

“Figures,” Dave muttered. “What else?”

“That I’m to tell you she’s not happy with you, either.”

Dave put the stopper back in the bottle. “She said that?”

“No.” He edged by a tall vase with some sort of exotic plant that he could never remember the name of and sat down on the sofa. “Actually, she asked me if I was seeing you tonight.”

Dave paused, then turned around, bottle still in hand. “You’re kidding.”

It wasn’t a question and he said a little acidly, “No, I am not.”

Dave frowned, then, as Aaron knew he would, shrugged and went back to the drink.

“You’re not bothered by it?”

“Nah. If she had something on you, you’d know it.” Dave turned, two glasses in hand, and paused again. “Hey, you didn’t eat, did you.”

Again, it wasn’t a question but Aaron, still pissed about Dave’s casual dismissal of Strauss’ comment said quietly, “I’m not hungry.”

“Okay,” Dave shrugged, and then after heartbeat. “I made carbonara.”

That was different. Dave’s carbonara could crush things far greater than his stubborn streak. Still, after the day he’d had, after the dressing down he’d received, Dave was gonna have to work for it. “With bacon or without?”

Dave made a face. “That was just that one time because you said you’d been eating too much. No self-respecting Italian makes carbonara without bacon. Come on.”

Aaron gave Dave a long look, wondering if it was worth it, playing hard to get. He decided not and followed Dave into the kitchen. He chose the stool nearest the stove and sat down at the island, arms resting on the black granite countertop.

He loved this.

Watching Dave in the kitchen. Watching him move deftly around, getting this pan or that, testing things, tasting things. He loved it so much that he’d wondered, at the start, what was so fascinating about passively observing while Dave cooked for him until the answer hit him like a blow—his own childhood had been so screwed up, the least of which was a scarcity of simple, necessary, familial moments.

The epiphany had been a shock and it had made him feel weird, as if he were only attracted to Dave because he might be a father figure, even a mother figure. And then he remembered that he’d felt the same thing with Haley, that he’d loved to watch as she baked or cooked.

That second shock had been accompanied by a shameful relief compounded by a silent, sardonic reminder that he’d never, _ever,_ been sexually attracted to his father.

Dave got a bowl out of the refrigerator, then glanced over. “So you fielded calls all evening?”

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

Dave raised his eyebrow. “It was necessary, Aaron.”

Aaron ignored that and raised his own eyebrow. “Are those peas?”

Dave gave him a sharp glance, but just said evenly, “They are.” He poured the congealed mess into a pot, then put it on the stove and turned on the gas. “My grandmother was always throwing different things in with the pasta. A bastardization that always drove my father crazy, but I like it. Can you get the glasses?”

Aaron reached up and slid two wine glasses down from the rack. “Because you feel a little more virtuous if you add a vegetable?”

Dave, handing him an open bottle of wine, gave a startled chuckle. “Bingo.” He set a plate and fork in front of Aaron, neatly arranging everything just so. “Did the Archbishop call?”

Aaron shook his head. “No, but your friend Father Davison did.” He poured the wine.

Dave hesitated, then reached for his glass. “Did you tell him what happened?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d say a prayer for Father Del Toro on Sunday.”

He’d made his tone as neutral as possible, but still, Dave heard what he hadn’t said. “He believes everyone is capable of redemption, Aaron.”

“I know.”

Dave took a sip of wine, then said offhandedly, “Did I tell you what he told me when I went to ask him about the exorcism? I mean, other than it had been too long since my last confession?”

“No.”

“He said that when one opens the door to evil, one allows it entry to one’s soul. Or,” Dave shrugged, adding, “words to that affect.”

He tipped his glass, studying the way the wine left a filmy residue on the glass. “Do you really believe that?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter what I believe.”

He looked up. “In this circumstance, yes, it does.” Because it was true. The case, started by Emily, had been driven by Dave and his shared beliefs in profiling and the Catholic faith.

Dave stared at him for a long moment, then conceded with a nod. “Okay, yes, I do believe that such a thing as evil exists. I said as much to Morgan.” He sat his glass down and returned to the stove so he could stir the pasta.

“I remember.”

“But, you don’t believe me.”

“I do believe you, Dave. It’s just…” He paused and shrugged uncomfortably.

Dave picked up the pot and carried it over to Aaron. “God, demons and angels—they’re not in your scope of reality.” 

“No,” he agreed softly as he held out his plate. Dave tipped the pot and the pasta slid out. It smelled wonderful. “But just because I don’t believe doesn’t mean I don’t doubt that you do.”

“Are you sure?” Dave asked as he reached, long-armed to set the pot back on the stove. “I know religion makes you uncomfortable.”

He leaned forward. “Hey?”

Dave looked up.

“It doesn’t make me uncomfortable, Dave. I just grew up with different experiences. And, I don’t look down at you for your faith. You know that, right?”

Dave watched him steadily with that hooded gaze that hid so many things.

“Besides,” Aaron added with his own shrug, “isn’t it about acceptance and tolerance?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, as long as you don’t judge _me_ for my non-belief, does it really matter?”

“I don’t know,” Dave answered. “In my circle, sleeping with a non-Catholic is actually worse than sleeping with a man.”

Aaron jerked his head up and then rolled his eyes when he saw Dave’s sly, _‘Got you’_ expression. Idiot, he thought fondly. He took a bite. It was as delicious as it smelled and he found himself head down, suddenly starving, eating until his plate was clean.

“There’s more,” Dave said.

He’d been watching Aaron eat and it shouldn’t be so heady, being the focus of that regard. “No. I’m fine.” Even though he was still a little hungry. Even though Dave was giving him that, _‘Sure you are,’_ look.

He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “How do you know Father Davison?”

It was a change of subject. Dave straightened up and took his plate and fork. “I was his alter boy when he was first out of seminary. When he moved to D.C., I started going to his parish.” He opened the dishwasher and put the plate and fork in.

Aaron smiled. “You were an alter boy? Seriously?”

Dave smiled back. “Seriously. Father O’Rourke had just retired and Jimmy came in to replace him. It was like a breath of fresh air. All the women fell in love with him, of course.”

“And some of the men?”

Dave grinned as he shut the dishwasher. “He was well loved.”

“You two are close?”

Dave pushed his sleeves up and turned on the water, saying louder, “He officiated over my first two weddings.”

“But not the last?”

“Well, by then we both knew it was a good chance it wouldn’t stick.” Dave washed the pan. “I figured I’d give him an out when he made his confession to God.” He turned off the water then looked around.

“I’m sorry,” he said as grabbed the dishcloth and tossed it.

Dave caught it, then shrugged and dried his hands. “It’s over and done.” He began to dry the pot.

Aaron turned his glass about, hesitating for a moment because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to the question he had to ask. “Have you told him about me?”

Dave stopped what he was doing and looked over his shoulder. “No. There was no reason.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

 _‘Don’t,’_ Aaron wanted to say because it was clear Dave was lying. “But, you’re sinning, right? Homosexuality is a sin in the Catholic church.”

“There are degrees of sin, Aaron. I don’t subscribe to all of them. Neither does Jimmy. Besides…”

Dave finished drying the pot; he tossed the dishtowel on the countertop, uncharacteristically messy, then walked around the island, fingers lightly tracing the granite, eyeing Aaron as he came closer.

Aaron, caught unawares by the sudden shift in mood, felt his heart jerk and thump and he waited. For Dave to come up behind him, to step close. He smelled faintly of cologne. “‘Besides?’” he murmured.

“Besides,” Dave said again, this time in a whisper. “I don’t care. Yes, I’ve sinned with you and I intend to go on sinning. In fact, I hope to sin again in about ten minutes.”

Aaron swallowed thickly. “Ten minutes?”

“More or less.” Dave came closer and stroked his shoulders and arms, down and up and even through two layers of cotton, he could feel the appreciation in Dave’s touch. “It all depends.”

He smiled at their game. “On?”

Dave kissed the nape of his neck. “On how fast you can get upstairs and into bed.”

Aaron breathed a laugh and tipped his head so Dave could kiss that spot behind his ear, the one that never failed to drive him crazy. “What were you like?” he murmured absently.

Dave bit the rim of his ear. “What do you mean?”

“When you were an alter boy,” Aaron managed around a shiver. “What were you like?”

“Too serious except for the times when I needed to be serious, according to Father Davison.”

“Serious? You?”

“Hm-mm.”

He couldn’t imagine it. He’d seen a picture of Dave when he was maybe ten years old; short and thin with dark hair, darker eyes. “Huh,” he said, mostly to have something to say because he was losing track of the conversation and couldn’t think why he’d asked in the first place.

“Hm-mm,” Dave said. “I was very devout; I even thought of going into the priesthood.”

Aaron opened his eyes and turned his head, surprised. “Really?”

“Yep.” Dave kissed his cheek.

“Huh.”

“Does that shock you?”

“Some. You’re so—” Aaron stopped, unable to say that Dave, with his love of good food, art, and books, had always seemed so physical, maybe even _too_ physical and not priest material at all. “What happened?”

“Decided to try the military instead. Discovered that celibacy and me were a bad mix. Besides, those cassocks would have been a pain in the ass. Can you imagine it, me a priest?”

“Oh,” Aaron murmured, because he _could_ imagine it and he had a sudden vision of Dave in a black robe and a white collar, standing in front of an alter. He closed his eyes halfway which only made the fantasy clearer and it should _definitely_ not be a turn-on, the idea of Dave as a touch-me-not, inviolate priest because he didn’t have that kink.

Did he?

“Oh,” he whispered again, sounding foolish even to himself.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

But it came out too breathy and Dave leaned forward and around so he could look Aaron in the face. He stared for a moment, then cocked his head. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Huh?” His face was burning now, the heat rushing down his chest to his belly and there was a beat pounding in his ears. How would it be, approaching Father Rossi in front of that alter or—

“That gets you hot, imagining me as a priest?”

“No,” he lied through a suddenly dry mouth, turning away from Dave’s glance.

He might as well have said, _‘Hell, yes,’_ because Dave muttered “Jesus, Aaron,” as he forced the chair around, as he dove in. Pressing Aaron back against the island, pushing between his legs as he mouthed his jaw and chin then lips.

He wished he were the kind of man that could say, _‘I want to fuck you against the countertop or the sofa or even the 19th century loveseat. Anywhere, anywhere, anywhere…’_ But he was who he was, so he just whispered into Dave’s mouth, “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Yeah.” Dave pulled back, his voice rough. “You go up. I need to lock up.”

 _And cool off._ “Do you need help?”

“No, I can do it.”

“Okay.”

And he made himself move before he started something he couldn’t finish.

***

He began to disrobe the second his shoe touched the bottom step of the long stairway. First his tie, then his shirt. By the time he reached the second-floor landing, his tie was unknotted, his shirt unbuttoned, untucked.

When he strode into the bedroom, he stripped it all off then started on his pants, socks and shoes, tugging them off with equal parts carelessness and haste.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling his t-shirt over his head when Dave came into the room. His robe was gone and his pajama top was open to the waist. Aaron wanted to say, _‘That was fast,’_ and, _‘You look sexy,’_ but the fist was back in his throat and he didn’t trust his voice. He tossed the t-shirt to the ground and held out his hand.

Dave took a deep breath and came to stand in front of him. “What do you want?”

“You,” Aaron whispered, reaching out to grab slick silk over warm muscle. He spread his thighs and pulled Dave closer so he could kiss the center of his chest. “I want to make love to you.”

“You got it.”

 _‘You got it.’_ Really meaning, _‘You got me.’_

Aaron rubbed his cheek on Dave’s chest, then sank back onto the bed, pulling Dave with him.

***

It wasn’t working, he thought, as he slipped a finger in again, gauging Dave’s reaction, his own. They were on their sides, his leg between Dave’s and it wasn’t working.

It could be the angle, chosen by Dave because he’d never had it that way. It could be that he was tired. Or maybe it was just that he wanted it too much and _not_ wanted it at all because the first time hadn’t been so great. He hadn’t been able to relax, too conscious of causing pain, of not getting it right. He’d managed a few thrusts before coming too soon and that’s all he kept thinking about, that small failure that now seemed so large.

“Aaron,” Dave said and then, “Aaron?” when he didn’t answer.

“Yes?” His voice was strained and he cleared his throat, waiting for Dave’s, _‘You’re trying too hard,’_ or, _‘Don’t worry about it; we can try something else.’_

But Dave just said, “Do you know this quote: _‘To love is to suffer?_ ’”

Aaron stilled, head cocked, thinking about it. “No. Who said it.”

“Woody Allen.”

Aaron, caught by surprise, snorted.

“And he goes on to say that to _not_ love is to suffer, so no matter what you do, it’s gonna hurt. And I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“No. You can’t hurt me, Aaron.”

He rested his forehead on Dave’s back. The wry understanding was like a cool balm and the tension that had locked up his muscles and mind began to evaporate—he could feel it in his shoulders and arms, even the back of his legs. He wanted to say, _‘You always know how to pull me off the ledge, how to say the right thing and diffuse the situation.’_ But he didn’t want to go there, so he just kissed the broad sweep of Dave’s shoulder and tried again.

And that was so much better, loosening up enough to feel Dave’s responses, the slight stiffening when he added a second finger, the way he shuddered when he crooked his fingers just so, and yeah, that was so much—

“Aaron?” Dave whispered.

“Yeah?”

“If it helps any, when you get ready to come, think of me as a priest.”

Heat washed over his body and he groaned because apparently it really _was_ a kink and he was done being gentle—he replaced fingers with cock and pushed. And again, the heat changing to fire as he tried to find purchase, wrapping his arms around Dave’s chest, reminding himself not to claw or bite where it would show because they had to go to work in two days and Strauss would really know something was—

“Aaron,” Dave hissed. Then again, “ _Aaron…_ ” followed by something in Italian, low and throaty.

He moaned and bit Dave’s shoulder, then shoved him flat and mounted him, fucking him, his mind swept clean of anything but Dave, below and around.

***

“I think I’m jealous,” Aaron whispered.

“What of?”

“Of you.” He brushed his lips over the bite mark on Dave’s shoulder.  He hadn’t broken the skin, thankfully, and he kissed it again. “When you were young and serious.”

“Do you mean jealous for me, or _of_ me.”

“For you.”

Dave took a surprised breath and clasped Aaron’s arm tight to his chest. “Aaron.”

As if Aaron’s words physically hurt him and that was nothing he wanted, not now, so he changed the subject, back to the sanctuary of work and duty. “Dave?”

“Yeah.”

“What did Father Del Toro say to Prentiss when they were taking him away?”

“ _‘May God’s love be with you.’_ ” And before he could ask, Dave added, “And Emily answered, _‘And also with you.’_ ”

“It sounded more like she was swearing at him.”

Dave chuckled at his dry tone. “She was.”

“Do you think she’s going to be all right?”

Dave turned, forcing Aaron to release him, to move back. “Of course she is. She’s strong. And she’s got us.”

“Hmm.”

Dave squinted. “What’s up with you? What are you really thinking?”

He hesitated, trying to put into words what had been bothering him all night. “Morgan said that Father Del Toro truly believed he was fighting the devil. And you said that Father Davison believes that evil is always waiting to slip in when we’re not looking.”

“What of it?”

“Well, if evil really _does_ exist, what good does it do to fight it?” So much for sanctuary—he hadn’t realized he was still hung up on that, on the priest’s words.

“Do you really want to have this conversation now?”

“Yes.”

“Then…” Dave shrugged. “We fight evil because it’s necessary.”

His words of before and it still wasn’t satisfactory. “But what’s the point?”

“The point is, Aaron…” Dave rolled over, pushing Aaron to his back, then raised up on one elbow. His hair was sticking up in tufts and his eyes were sleepy. “The point is that no matter what Father Del Toro said, love is more powerful than hate and evil. Love is what keeps evil at bay, what keeps us sane and moving forward. But love asks us to fight the good fight.”

He pondered that a moment. He knew what Dave was saying, but knowing was one thing, believing was something else entirely. “And you think it’s as simple as that?”

“I do.”

He nodded. He needed to think on it; in his experience, evil had no purpose and was so complicated that it was impossible to point at it and say, _‘I know what you are.’_

“Hey, Aaron?” Dave asked, his voice unusually tentative.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking…” He looked down at Aaron’s chest, stroking thoughtfully, as if searching for a wound or a scar. “I’m going to call Jimmy up tomorrow and tell him about you. About us.”

Aaron froze, then reached for Dave’s hand. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, I do. I should have done it a while ago, but…”

He shrugged and Aaron remembered that Dave had his own set of fears and anxieties. “Okay.”

“We might live to regret it.”

He pulled Dave down and held him. “You said yourself that he won’t excommunicate you and he can’t do anything to me.”

“No,” Dave said wryly. “I’m not thinking of that. I’m thinking that the minute I tell him, he’ll be asking if we want a commitment ceremony.”

“I thought he was done with all that.” His tone was even, not reflecting any of the shock he was feeling. He’d never thought about marrying again, hadn’t thought much beyond the fact that he was almost happy these days.

“No.” Dave shook his head. “That was my doing, but don’t be surprised if he shows up at the BAU with a non-denominational official and our vows already written.”

Aaron raised his eyebrow but didn’t say anything; he just stroked Dave’s back, still quietly stunned.

***

They made love again that night, sometime in the small hours, a simple, sleepy act of just hands and mouths. He fell asleep immediately after.

When he woke next, it was sunny outside. He was alone, Dave’s side of the bed was cold and the comforter was pulled high. They were both early risers; Aaron by necessity, Dave by choice, which meant he was probably in the kitchen, making breakfast.

He’d be dressed in sweats and t-shirt, multi-tasking by cooking as he watched the morning news and read the morning newspaper.

Aaron smiled and curled up on his side. He should get up and help, but for once he was going to be selfish and make Dave wait on him.

He was dozing, still smiling, when his cell rang. He reached for it, only then realizing that it was on the nightstand and not in the breast pocket of his jacket, still downstairs. Dave must have put it there so he wouldn’t have to get up, and it was dangerous, the way that small act of thoughtfulness made him feel. He thumbed the green button and said, “Hotchner.”

“Agent Hotchner? Agent Aaron Hotchner?”

It was a woman’s voice, no one he knew. “Yes?”

“Good. I’ve been trying your other number but haven’t been able to get through.”

His ‘other’ phone had to be his old home number, long since disconnected. “Yes, how can I help you?”

“My name is Janice. Janice Green. I’m Detective Shaunessy’s nurse.”

He frowned. “Detective Tom Shaunessy?”

“Yes, and I’m sorry to call so early, but he’d like to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“He won’t say, just that he wants to speak to you and that it’s urgent.”

He nodded. “Very well.”

“You’ll have to come here, I’m afraid. He’s been bedridden for a while.”

“Of course.” He sat up and looked around, searching for something to write on and with. “Give me a second.” He found paper and pen, neatly organized in the nightstand drawer. “Go ahead.”

As he was writing down the directions, Dave came in, holding two cups. He raised one. Aaron nodded.

Janice Green finished with an apologetic, “And if you get lost, just call. The house can be hard to find.”

A lot of things in Boston could be hard to find, but he just said, “I will.” Dave sat a cup down on the nightstand and turned the handle towards him.

“Can I tell him you’ll be by soon? He’s been asking every day, practically every hour.”

He wanted to say that, no, work could wait. That he hadn’t talked to Tom in years and another few days wouldn’t matter. But she sounded anxious so he said, “I’m busy today. Will Sunday work?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll let him know. Thank you very much.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Agent Hotchner.”

“Yes.”

He hung up and laid the phone on the nightstand.

“Trouble?” Dave asked, placing his cup next to Aaron’s, tensing as if he were one step away from vaulting across the room to get dressed.

Aaron fingered the small piece of paper, then set it by the phone. He wanted one day, just one day of no stress and pain and death. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

And he reached for the coffee only to change his mind at the last second, reaching for Dave instead.

 

 

 _fin._


End file.
